The Gray Nightshirt: Introspection
by UnderneathTheBridge
Summary: Severus Snape, if you recall, wears a gray nightshirt. Why? Snape discusses this and the course of his life. Intertwined with and inspired by T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."


The Gray Nightshirt—Introspection 

By UnderneathTheBridge

(Author's Note: The parts in italics were written by T. S. Eliot in his totally ass-kicking poem _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_. If you've never read the whole thing, go read it **now**.)

_Let us go then, you and I_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table….._

Yes, I wear a gray nightshirt. Yes, it's old, and dingy, and rarely washed, and ill-fitting, and a poor choice of sleepwear all around. However, I still wear it. You see, there is nothing else for me to wear. I simply don't have a choice in the matter. I realize that it makes no sense. To anyone but me, that is.

_There will be time, there will be time_

_To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet_

_There will be time to murder and create_

_And time for all the works and days of hands_

_That lift and drop a question on your plate…_

I remember the day I bought it. The First War had just finished, I had a position lined up for me at Hogwarts, and I had a future. I was drunk, too drunk to put any effort into buying sleepwear, and it was a beautiful day. I had all the time in the world to make Severus Snape into something I could be proud of. Obviously, I failed.

_And indeed there will be time To wonder "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"_

_Time to turn back and descend the stair_

_With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—_

_(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")_

Now I am old. I am gaunt. I am the bitter old bastard bachelor of Hogwarts, and I fill that position perfectly. I am comfortable.

_Do I dare_

_Disturb the universe?_

_In a minute there is time_

_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse_

_For I have known them all already, known them all—_

_Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,_

_I have measured out my life with coffee spoons…_

My life has been plotted. Set on a straight course towards the inevitable end. Spontaneity and surprises are only minor nuisances. They have little bearing on Severus Snape.

_And I have known the eyes already, known them all—_

_The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase_

_And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall_

_Then how should I begin_

_To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?_

_And how should I presume?_

They all know Severus Snape. There is not much to know about Severus Snape. Severus Snape is angry. Severus Snape is unreasonable. Severus Snape doesn't need anybody. Their picture of me is reliable. They can count on Severus Snape yelling at them, degrading them, humiliating them. My constant attempts to grab ever more control add stability to their lives. It's not even about control anymore, just about fitting a role. This is why they need me.

_Is it perfume from a dress_

_That makes me so digress?_

_Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl_

_And how should I presume?_

_And how should I begin?_

They know Severus Snape, but they do not know me. I am lonely, and they cannot fathom that. Severus Snape doesn't need anybody, and neither do I, but that doesn't keep me from wanting a self-forbidden connection. The women are there, always just out of reach but still close enough to taste on the tip of my tongue. That is one reason the nightshirt does not matter. There is no one to object.

_I should have been a pair of ragged claws_

_Scuttling across the floors of silent seas._

And when I want to escape, to go somewhere else entirely, I drink. I drink until I feel that Severus Snape is gone and that there is only me. You see, Severus Snape does not drink. Those around me either do not notice that I drink or do not care. It doesn't matter which one it is.

_But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed_

_Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in on a platter_

_I am no prophet—and here's no great matter_

_I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker_

_And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker_

_And in short, I was afraid._

There is no need for me to prove anything. All the thousands of hurts, and the much lesser number of triumphs, do not require interpretation and study. They are petty, and obvious, and consistently banal. Life came, and life will go, and nobody will ponder whether or not I am important.

_Would it have been worth while_

_To have bitten off the matter with a smile_

_To have squeezed the universe into a ball_

_To roll it towards some overwhelming question_

_To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,_

_Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—_

_If one, settling a pillow by her head_

_Should say: "That is not what I meant at all._

_That is not it, at all."_

I am attempting to explain this all, but I see that there is nothing to explain. When I try to present the inner workings of myself, there is nothing to explain. This will all be very short. I try to distance myself from Severus Snape, but we are one and the same, so every day it becomes a bit more futile. There was only one time in my life when I had pride in the fact that we were one and the same. That is when I bought that nightshirt. My drearily awful childhood, my stereotypically bad school years, my dark time with the Death Eaters, my endless years teaching at Hogwarts—there was not one time when I was not striving for distance. The one time was in-between the markers of my life, a sidewalk crack. And now the cracks are gone, and the sidewalk is a dusty path, leading towards a cliff with an endless drop.

_It is impossible to say just what I mean!_

_But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:_

_Would it have been worth while_

_If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,_

_And turning toward the window, should say:_

_"That is not it at all, _

_That is not what I meant, at all."_

My parents are dead, which does not impact me, since they never liked me. The few lovers I had in my youth have disappeared, which does not impact me, since they never would have stayed no matter how hard I worked. The people in my life now are the people that will be in my life until the end. There will be no more first impressions and awkward encounters. I am still comfortable. Comfortable and happy are barely related. For me, happiness has been promise, and promise has faded like ink on threads endlessly washed until they turn an even duller shade of gray. When I bought the nightshirt, I didn't realize how ugly it was. I didn't realize that it would inevitably get uglier.

_No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be_

_Am an attendant lord, one that will do_

_To swell a progress, start a scene or two…_

_Politic, cautious, and meticulous_

_Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse_

_At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—_

_Almost, at times, the Fool._

Do I wish I was Harry Potter? Yes, naturally. He has so much promise. So many choices to make, so many of them bringing him happiness. All those around him are supporting characters in the majestic story of his life. I am a bit player to Harry Potter. While I am an antagonist, I hold no threat to him now that he has conquered the great opposing force. I may have been important once, but now I just distract from the action of his love, his occupation, his life, his future, his promise. However, I have a contract, so they cannot fire me. Either my death will be written into the script as a minor event causing minor reflection, or I will quit. I do not have it in me to quit.

_I grow old…I grow old…_

_I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled._

If there is one thing I will never be able to fully tolerate, it is youth. Each new First Year makes me bitterer, for obvious reasons. They are 11. When you are 11, you can do anything. If I didn't despise them so much, I would tell them that. If I gave a shit about one of those little morons, I would tell them that. But Severus Snape does not give a shit, and neither do I.

_Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?_

This is my life. This is the life and times of Severus Snape. I will become older, and gaunter, and they will think of me less and less until I cease to exist.

_I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each._

_I do not think that they will sing to me._

You see, the gray nightshirt is the one tangible element of my time of happiness and hope. Therefore, like any old man desperate for the past, I will wear it until I die so that I never forget that moment. If I do not have the nightshirt, and therefore do not have the link to the past, what do I have?

_I have seen them riding seaward on the waves_

_Coming the white hair or the waves blown back_

_When the wind blows the water white and black._

Now, what is the purpose of this writing here? To help them understand? I do not need them to understand. To give me solace? I do not need solace. To fill up time? There is no way to fill up time.

_We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_

Is it a suicide note?

_By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_

Well, that depends on how long I live.

_Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

For death appears to be the one promise I have left.


End file.
